Tuesday, 10:24PM_The Crack_Talking Memories_When Mrs. Magpie Came for Tea
Catalog Guide:
Tuesday, 10:24PM
Tuesday night, 10:24 PM sharp, Little Collins on 667 Lexington Ave, New York. Same place, same time for five years, all without an interruption in the weekly tradition of Sam’s. How could there have ever been a hiatus in their promised meetup? It would not be of Sam’s character to allow such thing. After all, the value of friendship to Sam has never changed within the course of all these years from the very beginning when Sam and Mort first conversed. And while, after high school, their pathways have perged—Sam to Rice University and Mort to the University of Houston—never once did their frie...
The Crack
Being home alone is the worst, especially when you are stuck there for days on end not knowing when you will ever be let out again. At first it’s fun, getting to relax like that, but after a while you just want to get back to your old life. Being confined into the small space of your walls that just seem to close in on you a little more each day feels like a psychotic break just waiting to happen. One day those cracks in the walls and the creaking of the floors will become too big and you’ll just jump in, preparing to fall into whatever world lies inside. When you’ve jumped in, you may find ...
Talking Memories
Love is not a brief moment, or an experience to pass you by. Love is a transcendental series of events. Not a fleeting feeling. But your entire existence. Within the power of every breath drawn, and riding on the current of every exhale, is the meaning of life, which is love.And he was in love with crack cocaine. He really loved that ewww.onedoor.ccscape. The love he breathed in from that drug was his purposeful elixir of life. But it wasn't always that way. He sticks his tongue out at me from behind the glass of the Biblio Café where I sit at a corner table by the west facing side. I laugh and mimic him as...
When Mrs. Magpie Came for Tea
I had met Mrs. Magpie when I was a child. I had moved to an old victorian-styled house with my mother and saw the pale lady with the tightly pinned bun and the tiny brows that always made her look surprised. She had told me stories of the wonders of the world back in her day, all about great wars, wonderful ladies, and beautiful dancing. She was the one who taught me how to make tea and was the first one to hear the stories I came up with. Ever the captive audience, she would always float closer while I rambled on about whatever story came to my mind. Mother thought that I had been talking to...